


Game

by Pink_Dalek



Series: Drive [2]
Category: Endeavour
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 02:10:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15086747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: The fourth season if it happened in the Drive universe.





	Game

**Author's Note:**

> The fourth season if it happened in the Drive universe.

It was mid-July, and Oxfordshire was in high summer. Joan locked up Paisley Dreams and headed home for the evening. Life had changed quite a bit in the two weeks since she'd tried to run away and Morse had insisted on driving her.

Her dad had spent time talking to her as an adult, not as a little girl, about what had happened at the bank. He told her how he’d learned to cope with the things that happened in his work, and even a bit about being a young soldier in the war. “There’s always regrets and things we could have done differently. We’re all doing the best we can. You made mistakes, and so did Ronnie. But in the end it was the Matthews brothers and their gang who chose to be criminals, chose to rob the bank, and chose to kill. No one held guns to their heads and forced them. They held guns to your heads, you and Gidderton. Only cowards do that to women and unarmed civilians.”

She still had nightmares sometimes, and it was her dad who made cocoa with a splash of brandy and sat up with her. “Do you have nightmares about work?” she asked once.

Thursday sighed. “Not so much work, but the war, definitely. Some things no one should have to see— or do. We all get scarred going through life, pet. There’s no avoiding it.”

Joan had strongly considered going to London— there was so much happening there.But she suspected with some sort of instinct that healing where the thing had happened would be better for her in the long term. And Morse was being endearingly attentive. He'd taken her to a film, and actually remembered a comment she'd made last autumn, about all girls being the flowers sort, and brought her a bouquet when he picked her up. Another time he'd taken her to dinner at an Italian restaurant, and it reminded her of their dinner in Cardiff. Morse was different from other blokes she'd gone out with: he was old-fashioned, but he also knew how to make a girl feel special. He was painfully shy, but trying so hard to put his best foot forward that it was utterly adorable.

She'd quit the bank— even going in to give notice, with her dad along for moral support, had given her an anxiety attack, and he'd taken her to the nearest pub afterward and bought her a sherry. She was at loose ends until she'd spotted a new boutique in central Oxford amid the colleges. Paisley Dreams was an attempt to transplant a little bit of Carnaby Street to Oxford and was absolutely buzzing with activity when she'd gone inside. Sitar music was playing and the place smelled lightly of incense. There were displays of Biba and Mary Quant cosmetics that had drawn her like a bee to nectar, and then she started browsing accessories and frocks.

The owner was running the register and assisting customers. She was maybe thirty and looked like Peggy Moffit with her glossy brunette Sassoon-style bob. She was friendly and cheery despite being run off her feet, and Joan felt an immediate stab of sympathy. Plus, she loved the shop already. God knew staid Oxford needed a breath of air.

"You wouldn't happen to be hiring, would you?" Joan asked while her purchases were rung up.

There was hope in the woman's brown eyes. "Do you have any experience?"

"Not in a shop, but I was a clerk at the Wessex bank for two years, until last week."

"That's the one that— you weren't there, were you?" Joan nodded. "Oh, you poor thing. I don't blame you wanting out after that. So you understand about arriving on time, and looking after customers and all."

"Of course."

"Here's an application. I'll put it in your bag."

Joan had filled out the application while she drank a coffee in a nearby cafe, dropping it off before she caught the bus home. The phone rang that evening. "This is Margot Simms, from Paisley Dreams. I'd like to interview you."

They'd settled on the next morning before the shop opened, and Joan had worn one her new minidress with tights that picked up one of the colors in the print, low-heeled shoes she already owned, and enameled daisy earrings her mum had given her as a little pick-me-up after she'd quit the bank. Her new eyeshadows, a set of thick false eyelashes, and pale pink lipstick completed the look, along with ratting her hair a bit at the crown and flipping the ends slightly with curling tongs.

The interview had gone perfectly. Margot was desperate for clerks. "I had one who was never on time, one who disappeared without a word, and one just ran off with her boyfriend." She'd hired Joan on the spot.

"When do you want me to start?"

Margot bit her lip, looking uncertain. "How soon can you start?"

"Anytime."

"You look fantastic. Those colors are amazing on you. Only thing you need is— " she plucked a scarf from a display, folded it into a narrow strip, and handed it to Joan. "Tie this for a headband. On the house, since you didn't get employee prices yesterday. I usually knock a third off everything for my clerks." She showed Joan where everything was, they set up for the day, and Margot unlocked the shop at ten with a half-dozen girls waiting outside.

It was a busy day, but so much more fun than the bank. Joan had always had an eye for color and style, and was in her element putting together outfits and helping nervous blokes pick out gifts for their girlfriends and sisters. She'd rung her mum before they opened to let her know so she wouldn't worry, and her mum must have called the station with the news because when they closed the shop at six there was a familiar black Jaguar waiting at the curb.

"My dad and his assistant," Joan explained. Morse had gotten out to open the rear door for her. "Hello, Miss Thursday." He goggled at her in her stylish getup, but she had to admit he covered it well.

"This is Morse. Morse, Margot Simms. She owns the shop."

Margot extended her hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

"And my dad, Fred Thursday." Fred had stepped out from the passenger side and tipped his hat.

"Good to meet you, Miss Simms." He handed her a business card before Joan could stop him. "If you ever run into trouble at the shop or anything, give us a ring."

"Detective Inspector with the city police. This is comforting to have, even though it's a good neighborhood."

Win exclaimed over her outfit— she'd been at a keep fit class when Joan left that morning at nine— and insisted Morse stay to tea. Fred grumbled that her frock was too short, but Joan merely rolled her eyes. Morse tried to watch her walk upstairs as subtly as he could. He knew some men called themselves breast men or leg men while he tended to appreciate everything from top to toe, and he definitely liked the miniskirt trend.

He didn't notice Thursday catch him watching Joan, shake his head, and retreat to the lounge. Fred knew his little girl was a grown woman, and she was as pretty as his Win had been at that age, but even seeing someone as trustworthy as Morse looking at her like that made his hackles rise a bit.

 

Joan was incredibly busy with the shop. There was one other clerk, Lucy, who was a reliable, responsible sort with a sense of fun, and Margot was looking for a third. But she found time to go out with Morse whenever he asked.

"There's going to be a concert with a glass armonica at Badeley this weekend."

"What is that?"

"A series of glass bowls that spin, and the musician runs wet fingertips along the edges. I've heard exactly one recording of one, years ago. It's a weird, eerie sort of sound, but beautiful at the same time— I can't really describe it."

"It sounds intriguing. When?"

"Saturday afternoon, at four. We could go to dinner afterward."

"I'll put in for that day off, or at least to work a half day."

"I'm working a half day, too. Let me know if I should come to yours, or stop by the shop."

In the end, Joan was able to leave work at three. Morse entered Paisley Dreams on the dot and looked around curiously. He hadn't been inside yet. The walls were painted in bright yellow or lavender, except for one long wall that had a mural of paisley patterns swirling in yellow, lavender, shocking pink, white, and a green the color of new grass. Joan was finishing up with a customer, and he nosed around the busy shop while he waited.

"Are you ready?"

"I am." Joan put her arm through his, and they went out into the late-afternoon sunlight. "How was your day?"

"Oh, the usual. Paperwork, mostly. Dull, really. Yours?"

"The new clerk started this morning. I think she'll do. It'll be much easier when it's not all on Margot and Lucy and me."

The concert was eerie, dreamy, and more beautiful than Morse had expected. He looked over at Joan, a little concerned, but her wide eyes and silent "Oooh," let him know she was enjoying it, too. "I want a recording of that," she said at the end, under cover of the applause. They went to dinner after that, lingering over dessert and tea.

 

Monday morning found Morse at the Thursday house bright and early to collect Fred. Joan opened the door, her hair brushed smooth, wearing a pink gingham dressing gown over a summer nightgown. She had an early-morning softness that made him think of carrying her to bed and kissing her senseless. He wrestled his mind off that train of thought before it could go any further. "Morning, Joan," he greeted her with the shy smile she loved.

"Good morning." She lifted up on her toes to kiss his cheek, smelling of rosewater and mint toothpaste. "You're to hear back on your exam today, aren't you? Not that there's any question. You aced it, I'm sure. Probably with the highest score in Oxfordshire history."

"I doubt that," he demurred, although her faith in his ability warmed him. "As long as I passed, I'll be happy."

"Morning, Morse." Thursday was coming down the stairs.

"Morning, sir."

Thursday waited until they were in the car. "Anything in?"

"Man's body found in the Cherwell. Preliminary ID suggests it's that professor went missing last month."

 

By evening Morse's mood had gone about as far south as it could. He was sitting in his armchair, drinking while Mozart’s Requiem played on his phonograph, when there was a timid-sounding tap on his door. He went to answer it. "Joan?"

"Dad told me about your exam. I'm so sorry."

He stood aside to let her in. "Did he tell you it went missing?"

"Missing? He just said you failed. I thought there had to be some mistake."

"Bright said he received a letter stating that a number of exams never made it to Barking, and mine was one of them. A lost exam means an automatic fail." He returned to his chair.

Joan's expression was fierce, her hands on her hips. "That sounds a right load of tosh— lost your exam— I'd like five minutes with them." She sounded like her dad, and even wore the same expression. "Incompetent clots."

"I asked Mr. Bright to look into it for me."

"Why didn't you come over to ours?"

Morse rubbed the back of his neck, feeling awkward. "Your dad and I— we had a bit of a disagreement over the case. And he scolded me for failing the exam, before he knew the circumstances. He seemed— "

"In a strop?" Joan finished knowingly. "Mum's given him a turn. He's used to her being home all the time. But with Sam gone and me working full time, there's not nearly as much to do. She doesn't have to do the shopping every other day because Sam ate everything, there's not nearly as much housework to do— she's bored, and it's making her blue. I've been encouraging her to find other things to do with her time. Volunteer work, maybe some adult ed classes, part-time job— she needs to get out of the house more. When we were little, she led my Girl Guides group for a few years and volunteered at our school, belonged to a mum's club, threw Tupperware parties. She was always busy. When we moved to Oxford, she didn't do as much of that, and it just withered away. Dad got used to it, and then he started expecting it. It's not healthy for her.” Joan rummaged in his fridge and cupboards. “You haven’t got anything in but bread, beans, and marmalade.”

“I’m not all that hungry.”

“Drinking on an empty stomach’s sure to ruin your liver. Up you get.” She took away his scotch glass, grabbed both his hands and tugged. “We’re going to the pub and get some proper food in you.”

He tried to wave her off but she was having none of it, and once he was on his feet she put his suit jacket on him like he was a child while he grumbled and was roundly ignored. Then she straightened his shirt collar, smoothed down his lapels, and— of all things— kissed the tip of his nose, before taking his hand and leading him from his flat.

The pub was busy but not overwhelmingly so, and the smell of food woke his appetite. They chatted about everything but the station while they ate, and Joan talked him into a few rounds of darts when the dartboard was free. She was better than he expected.

“Remind me not to make you angry. I might end up with a dart in my ear.”

“Or in your bum.” Joan giggled at the look he gave her.

They argued over the bill when Morse automatically reached for it. “I invited you, therefore I’m paying,” Joan said.

“But— “

“No buts.”

“Bu— “

“I said no buts.” She turned mischievous. “Unless you want to wrestle for it.”

Morse’s eyes widened and he tried not to gape at her, even as he felt a twitch of interest at the idea. Judging from the gleam in her eyes, she knew. It would feel wonderful, after the day he’d had, to fall into bed with her and forget for awhile. But this was Thursday’s daughter. She was out of bounds for a casual tumble. Besides, he wasn’t really the casual sort. “Er— we could go Dutch?”

“Not tonight. You’ve had a horrid day, and I dragged you here. Don’t you know not to argue with a lady?” Joan took the check and stood to take it to the register. “Besides, it’s a new era.” Morse raised his hands in surrender with the sweet half-smile that he didn’t know melted her.

Walking to the bus stop, Joan mused on ways to investigate what had happened to his exam. “Don’t try to go sniffing about,” Morse told her sternly. “If Bright is correct, it could be dangerous. And reading Nancy Drew novels as a girl is no preparation.” Her stubborn expression almost made him chuckle: it was identical to Fred’s. He bumped his arm against her shoulder. “Give Bright a chance, at least, all right?”

“I suppose,” Joan groused. It warmed him the way she was so willing to fight on his behalf. He saw her home, then returned to his flat. He tidied up a bit, dumping out the leftover glass of scotch, before taking a bath to wash off the day and practically falling into bed, exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster he’d ridden that day.

 

Thursday grumbled on the ride in the next day that Win had taken a job cleaning offices. “Up before dawn. She’ll wear herself out. And it’s not like we need the income.”

“Perhaps she just wanted a change,” Morse said mildly.

“So why not a job in a shop? She did that before we were married.”

“Maybe once she’s gotten her feet wet?”

“If she was going to do it, she should have gotten a job at Richardson’s a few years ago. Employee pricing on food, and she was there all the time anyway. It seemed like Sam was eating his weight in food every week.”

The week went from bad to worse a few days later, when Morse realized Tessa Knight had stolen his police notebook and used it to write her story for the Oxford Mail. He was angry, but more than that he felt betrayed, hurt, and used, snapping at Dorothea Frazil on his way out of her office.

Thursday gave him a thorough scolding, ending with, “And change your shirt. If Joan sees you with another woman’s lipstick on your collar, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

By the time Broderick Castle kidnapped Dorothea Frazil, Morse knew she’d had no idea that Tessa had stolen his notebook. He and Thursday raced after Castle’s car, the Jaguar’s powerful engine catching them up just in time to see Dorothea and Castle fighting for the steering wheel before the car swerved and rolled, quickly bursting into flame. Morse hared off after the fleeing Castle while Thursday rescued the Mail’s editor.

Morse returned with Castle, whose hands he’d tied with his own necktie, both men soaked to the skin after Castle’s attempt to drown himself. Thursday wasted no time cuffing the man, then cuffing him to the frame of the rear door across from where Dorothea was shivering, more from nerves than cold, and still coughing from smoke.

Morse went straight to her. “Are you all right, Miss Frazil?”

“I’m fine. I drew fire and you drew water.”

“I wonder who got earth and air?” Morse suddenly bent over, hands on his knees, and coughed violently, spitting out a last mouthful of water. “I got a bit waterlogged rescuing the suspect.”

“I’d offer you my jacket,” Morse rasped once he’d recovered, “but it wouldn’t do you any good.”

Dorothea managed a ragged smile. “Thanks for the thought.”

Morse tugged at the jacket. “It was a brand-new suit,” he mourned. “And the shoes, too.”

“A dry-cleaner should be able to sort out the suit. Wad up newspaper and put it in the shoes before you set them to dry; it helps.”

“Worst case, you put in a request for replacement,” Fred told him. “That’s what the plainclothes allowance is for.”

They heard sirens, then a fire truck, patrol car, and ambulance all pulled up alongside. The firemen went to work extinguishing the car while Thursday spoke to the PS and PC, bringing them up to speed. Meanwhile, the ambulance crew were checking out Dorothea and Morse, giving them oxygen and insisting Morse change into dry clothes as soon as possible, before checking over Castle. After some oxygen he was pronounced fit for transport to the station. The patrol officers transferred him to their car and received final instructions from Thursday before heading back to the station with him; the police doctor on duty would see to him if necessary.

Morse and Thursday gave Dorothea a ride back to the station. They took her statement in an interview room while Morse hovered near the radiator in his shirt and trousers, grateful the boiler hadn’t yet been shut down for the summer. The room soon smelled of wet wool and stagnant water, but feeling mostly dry again was wonderful.

Afterward, they drove her home, making sure she’d be all right alone before they left. “I’ll be fine. I survived worse in Korea. Thanks for looking after me, especially after everything that’s happened.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re a pain in the arse reporter,” Fred teased, “but you’re _our_ pain in the arse reporter.”

Morse, a bit loopy from exhaustion, nodded with a slight, mischievous smile playing on his lips. “He’s right, you know.”

Dorothea looked a little surprised at his levity, but her answering smile was warm. “Go home, you two. Get some sleep.”

It was dawn when Morse pulled up outside the Thursdays’ house, the pair still arguing about his no-longer-missing notebook. He was wearing his mulish expression, and Thursday gave up. Morse’s ironclad ethics made him incorruptible even when it hurt him, and Fred knew overall it was a good thing.

When he turned to open the passenger door, he was greeted by Win’s smiling face. “Finally getting in? Good for some, I suppose,” she teased.

“Would you like a lift, Mrs. Thursday?”

“Oh, that would be quite nice, dear.”

Once she was in the car Win reached into her tote, pulling out something wrapped in a napkin and handing it to him. “Our neighbors went blueberry picking over the weekend and brought us some. Joan baked muffins with them last night. When I saw you pull up, I fetched one for you. They make a nice breakfast with a cuppa.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Thursday.”

When he finally returned to his flat, Morse wasted no time stripping off his clothes and taking a shower, washing the river from his hair and body. Then he put on pajamas and a vest before tumbling into bed. He thought he heard the milkman at the door as he closed his eyes, asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

He’d just awakened in the early afternoon and was draining a glass of water when the phone rang.

“Morse?”

“Miss Thurs— Joan? Is everything all right?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Mum stopped by the shop on her way home from work and told me you and Dad were up all night. I thought I’d check on you during my lunch break. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I woke up about ten minutes ago.” Morse refilled his glass, desperately thirsty after the long night and sleeping for several hours. They chatted briefly.

“Mum wants you at ours for tea.”

“That’s not nec— “

“Morse,” she reproved.

“I’ll be there.”


End file.
